"We'll travel by and by," promised Margaret. "It's rather selfish for me
to hold you here when all the world would be fresh to you."

"I take root easily," Priscilla returned, "and I'm like a plant we have
in my old home. My roots spread, and time is needed to strengthen them;
suddenly I shoot up and--flower. The little Canadian blossom doesn't seem
to justify the strong, spreading roots. I hope you will not find me
disappointing, Margaret."

Margaret Moffatt smiled happily.

"Just to think," she said, "that my real self and your real self
were waiting for us here behind the white hills! All along, through
generations and generations, they have been acquainted and have loved and
trusted each other, and then we, the unreal selves, came! Sometimes I
wonder"--Margaret looked dreamy--"what they think of us, just between
themselves? I am sure your true self must be prouder of you than mine can
be of me, for, with everything at my command, what am I? While you--oh,
Priscilla, how you have made everything tell!"

But Priscilla shook her head.

"Still," Margaret went on, "things were not at my command. They were all
there, but pigeon-holed and controlled. Such and such things were for
nice little girls like me! After a time I got to believe that, and it was
only when, one day, I touched something not intended for me that my soul
woke up. Priscilla, did you ever feel your soul?"

"Yes."